


Admiral Hackett Comes Onboard

by ThreeWhiskeyLunch



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Blow Jobs, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hacksani, M/M, Oral Sex, important things left unsaid, pre-Omega 4 relay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 03:58:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6407848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThreeWhiskeyLunch/pseuds/ThreeWhiskeyLunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set just after the Arrival DLC, Admiral Hackett knows someone else other than just Shepard on board the Normandy SR2. And Chakwas won't let him speak to Shepard. What to do with all those hours of waiting?</p><p>What to do indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Admiral Hackett Comes Onboard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pixelatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixelatrix/gifts).



> This is an additional treat for the Spectre Requisitions Rare Pair Gift Exchange. Because I couldn't get it out of my head.
> 
> Request by Pixelatrix  
> Steven Hackett/Zaeed Massani  
> Summary  
> Likes: Happy, Fluffy, Smut, Angst, Drama.  
> Dislikes: extreme bondage, torture, non/con,
> 
> No rating restrictions.  
> Prompt: Hackett runs into an old friend on the Normandy while waiting for Shepard to recover from Alchera. (I presume they mean post-Arrival dlc)

Admiral Steven Hackett watches the mercenary from the corner of his eye as he talks with Chakwas in the medbay. Tracks his movements as he gets his meal in the mess, sits at a table with a couple other crew members. He faces the medbay and the large observation window, planting himself in obvious view. Confirmation that Massani knows he's there. And if that weren't enough, the brief flick of his eyes towards him on more than one occasion tells him he's thoroughly aware. It's enough to raise his pulse by a degree.  
  
“Come back in five hours, Admiral. I'm not waking her just for you.” Chakwas plants her body in front of the bed where Shepard sleeps off the trauma of the last few days. Trauma he had sent her toward. Two broken ribs, a fractured femur. A job done, if not well at least done. She'll have a lot to answer for when she wakes. Not to him. But to the galaxy.  
  
Let her have her rest while she can.  
  
He nods and steps back. “I'm just a guest here. I'll come back.”  
  
He turns toward the window, sees Massani walking, slowly, away from the kitchen. Zaeed catches his eye, his eyebrows raised slightly in question. Hackett nods, just a dip of his chin and Zaeed answers back with a quick jerk of his head toward the elevator and keeps walking. Their own private public language.  
  
He sends a message to his yeoman as he follows the familiar yellow armor around the corner and into the elevator. Gives Zaeed an appraising look as he leans back against the wall.  
  
“I hope to hell you have whiskey,” Hackett says.  
  
The man scoffs, a crooked grin lifting the unscarred side of his face. “Have you ever known me to not?”  
  
He studies Zaeed on the brief ride down. There are lines in the corners of his eyes that hadn't been there before, and a look of worry that speaks more than words about the missions he'd been running with Shepard. Still…”You look good.”  
  
The look he gets in return is heated and Zaeed’s voice lowers when he says, “So do you.”  
  
He follows him into what seems to be a storage area. Leave it to Zaeed to hunker down in his own corner behind what crates he can form into his own personal bunker. It smells of cigar smoke and flammable materials. A welcome, familiar smell.  
  
A glass with several fingers of liquid gold is pressed into his hand. “Sorry. No ice.”  
  
“I'll live.” He takes a sip. Zaeed always has not just whiskey, but the best whiskey: smooth and smoky, slightly peaty. It hits his bloodstream and he sighs.  
  
“How long?” Zaeed asks.  
  
“Five hours.”  
  
He nods and finishes off his glass. “More than we usually get.” He reaches out and carefully removes Hackett's cap, setting it aside on the desk.  
  
As he turns, Hackett is given a long look at the Blue Suns tattoo on Zaeed’s neck. He finishes his whiskey and sets the glass aside, his blood simmering. From the whiskey. From the proximity of Zaeed.  
  
Who is suddenly very close, chin-to-nose. Hard chest armor brushes against him as Hackett leans in, holding the gaze of the mismatched eyes. It's been too long, he thinks. Over a year— _quick and fast, jerking each other in a supply closet on the Citadel, cum spilling from their hands down onto their boots, foreheads pressed together as they pant and groan_ —and that's just a crying shame.  
  
Zaeed doesn't move further, seems to be waiting for him to make the first move and that's a little unusual. But they have time, no need to rush, so Hackett steps forward and closes the space between them, his mouth coming down in an affectionate kiss. Zaeed’s eyebrows arch in surprise, but he responds with enthusiasm, quickly taking over so that it becomes all tongues and teeth, and soft moans swallowed. Their hands rest on each other's waists as they become reacquainted, kissing like long lost lovers—and maybe they are, in a strange way. Rough, battle-hardened hands pull him closer, sliding around to cup his ass so that his hardening cock is pressed against armor.  
  
Zaeed pants when they separate, a low groan rumbling up from his guts. “Goddamnit. You always do that like you fucking mean it.”  
  
“Who says I don't?” He separates the paldron from Zaeed’s armor, familiar enough to find the latch, and sets it on the desk beside his cap. Hackett removes the rest of the armor next, setting aside one piece at a time until Zaeed is down to his black under-armor. Zaeed watches him carefully, seemingly weighing those four words until Hackett brushes his fingertips over the bulge at Zaeed’s crotch. His breath catches then, eyelids fluttering briefly before they close as Hackett narrows in on the circle at his neck, sucking the skin in and biting down hard enough that Zaeed grunts.  
  
Hackett licks the spot gently before Zaeed pushes him away, going to work on the buttons on his jacket. He slips it down over his shoulders and arms and drapes it on the back of the chair. It always surprises Hackett how carefully the other man minds his uniform, never intentionally creasing or smudging. Which isn't to say that it hasn't happened. Especially when they don't have time. Not like now. Zaeed helps him as he kicks off his shoes and steps out of his trousers. He folds them along the crease, hanging them over the jacket. He quirks an eyebrow as he notes Hackett's cock clearly at attention and leaking pre-cum, the liquid darkening a spot on his boxers.  
  
“Someone's eager.” He pushes up Hackett's undershirt, bunches it up around his shoulders to gain access to his nipples, licking and biting them in turn between his teeth.  
  
Hackett moans, reaching for Zaeed’s hardness, cupping his balls before sliding up to rub along his length. “And you're not?”  
  
“Never said that.” He pushes the shirt up over his head, tossing it in the general direction of the chair. He misses and it falls to the floor. Apparently care for uniform does not extend to anything else. Zaeed’s fingers are at his throat, circling slightly in what could be a threatening gesture. He steps closer, his eyes full of mirth and heat, forcing Hackett to take a step back, and another, and another until he feels the cold metal bulkhead on his back. He doesn’t take his hand away though, instead he tightens it slightly even as he comes closer for another kiss, pressing their bodies together, Hackett’s dick sliding along Zaeed’s undersuit.  
  
That undersuit has to go.  
  
He yanks on the shirt hem, tugging it up and over, revealing all the scars, the muscles, the tattoos to his view. The shirt is tossed aside as he narrows in, hands tracing over pecs and through chest hair that leads downward, over scars—a few fresh that he doesn't like the look of—and finds the long string of numbers and letters that runs lengthwise along his ribs. He brushes his fingers over the tattoo, feeling an answer on its twin that runs along his own ribs as Zaeed scratches it slightly with blunt nails.  
  
Zaeed gives him _that look_. As if weighing him out, measuring and judging. And yet he seems slightly unsure, as if he’s afraid Hackett will find him lacking somehow. And he can’t have that. He frames Zaeed’s face with his hands and tries his best to chase away any shadows between them, kissing him harder than before, trying to put into action what his words could never convey. They press together, skin-on-skin, the chill in the air chased away by warm flesh. He swallows Zaeed’s moan, pushing down the rest of his undersuit, freeing his dick which he grabs quickly, palming him. The weight sits comfortable and familiar in his hand. He slicks the foreskin back, smearing his thumb through the pre-cum, rubbing the tip. The other man groans and then laughs into the kiss. And pushes himself into Hackett’s grip, creating friction.  
  
And it is so right.  
  
Zaeed traces his fingers down Hackett's chest, stopping at the scar from an old bullet wound. There's a mirrored scar on his back from where the bullet had exited, just a hair’s breadth from puncturing his lungs on its way through. Zaeed dips down to place a kiss on the scar, warm breath coasting along Hackett's skin so that goose flesh is raised. He cards his fingers through the man's hair, gasping slightly as Zaeed continues further down, biting at his hip bone and then kneeling on the floor before him, mismatched eyes locking in on Hackett's bulge.  
  
“Been too goddamn long,” he says, tugging at the waistband, pulling it lower centimeter by centimeter until his boxers fall softly to the ground to land around his ankles. Zaeed looks up and grins, lecherous and greedy and Hackett tightens his fingers in the now-messed hair, trying to draw him closer. He wants Zaeed’s mouth on him, knows how good he is, how deep he can take him, how he sucks and licks with such abandon. The anticipation, the image of what Zaeed is about to do, drives his heart to beat faster.  
  
“So what are you waiting for?” Hackett juts his hip, bumping the tip of his cock on Zaeed’s chin. A deep, rumbling laugh echoes through the room as Zaeed grasps him with a calloused hand.  
  
“Watch where you point that thing,” and then he licks slowly, starting at the base and working his way up to the tip, pushing back his foreskin, sucking off the dewy moisture. As his lips close around him, Hackett sighs and tightens his fingers in Zaeed’s hair, but resists thrusting. Zaeed knows what he's doing and he trusts him. However impatient he might be.  
  
A hot, wet mouth slowly takes him in, delicious suction as his dick is engulfed slowly, centimeter by centimeter until Zaeed’s nose presses against his stomach. Hackett groans, low at first but by the time he's all the way in the groan reverberates through the room. “Ah, fuck, Zaeed.”  
  
The man slides his mouth back the other way, just as slowly, and releases him with a wet slurp, saliva mixing with pre-cum as he gasps a breath and then takes him back in, a moan vibrating his tongue slightly just on sensitive nerve endings. Hackett hisses, tugging on Zaeed’s hair to get him to move a little faster, thrusting harder than he intends. The man resists with his hands on his hips, trying to hold him still, fingers pressing in with enough force to bruise later. He pulls off with a wet slurp, saliva shining on his lips, and coughs. “Dammit, Steven-”  
  
“Sorry, you okay?”  
  
“Yeah, just let me do it,” he says, his voice gruff.  
  
“Sorry,” he says again. “It's just...you're right. Been too long.”  
  
Zaeed grins up at him, feral. Wicked. He looks about to say something, but then his eyebrow twitches and he returns his attention back to matters at hand. He leans back on the wall, willing himself to relax. Zaeed takes his hands and presses them palm side down against the cold metal, taps them slightly to make them stay. He chuckles at that, but closes his eyes and takes a deep breath as that hot, wet mouth descends on him again.  
  
He loves this. How Zaeed almost seems to be trying to suck the cum from his balls one minute and barely touches him the next, hot breath coasting over wet skin. How he pulls his foreskin forward, tonguing the tip through the small opening and then pushes the foreskin back just to suck at the bulbous end. How he grabs hold of his balls like an anchor. How he bites at the tender flesh of his inner thigh. How his head bobs as he sucks harder and harder, until—  
  
“Wait. Stop.” Hackett gasps, tightening muscles to keep from coming, pushing Zaeed away. He sits back on his haunches and surveys his accomplishment—Hackett’s dick engorged and red and fairly streaming pre-cum—and nods as if he’s satisfied with the result.  
  
Hackett looks around the room, taking note of the stacked crates and the too-small cot, the desk and chair, the worktable riddled with gun parts and incendiary ammo. The floor looks fairly clean, if unforgivably hard and cold.  
  
Zaeed stands and blocks his view. “Trying to figure out where you’re going to fuck me?”  
  
“It crossed my mind. And who said anything about me fucking you?”  
  
“I called dibs.” Zaeed smirks, leans close and kisses the scar that cuts across his cheek.  
  
“When the hell did you call dibs?”  
  
“Just now.”  
  
Hackett sighs and bops him on the back of the head. “Ass.”  
  
“Damn right...” his lips skate down his jaw, biting and sucking as he goes until he gets to the tender spot at the crook of his neck. Hackett’s knees nearly give out from under him as Zaeed sucks skin in and bites, worrying the flesh with his teeth. He grabs hold, wrapping his arms around him so that they’re pressed together as he leans back heavily on the wall for support. Their dicks rub along each other, pressing into stomach and hip. His eyes close as he focuses in on the sensations of skin rubbing skin, Zaeed’s hands on his ass and lower back as he gives him— _Christ!_ —a hickey. Of all things. And fortunately below his collar line.  
  
Teeth bite in harder and he lifts a leg to hook around the merc’s knee. “Ah, fuck. What’s gotten into you?”  
  
Zaeed releases the skin. “No one. Lately.” He laps at the bruise with his tongue and pulls back to survey his work. Apparently satisfied, he kisses it before pulling away.  
  
“I find that hard to believe.”  
  
“Well, you better fucking believe it. There’s been no one since that fucking supply closet on the Citadel.”  
  
“But that’s—” _the last time they were together_ “—thirteen months? Zaeed.”  
  
“What? I’m getting old. And goddamn particular. And I’ve spent the last nine months on a ship with a woman who drives us like she’s fucking mad. Goddamn Shepard and her goddamn crusade. You could have warned me, you know.” Zaeed takes a step back, a smirk on his face. He walks backward, leading Hackett until he’s stopped by the cot.  
  
“What was I supposed to say? I’d only just found out myself she was alive when you messaged me.”  
  
Zaeed rummages around in a crate, bringing up a bottle of lube and a small box. “Condoms or bareback?”  
  
He eyes the condoms skeptically. If it’s been awhile... “How old are those things?”  
  
Zaeed shrugs and tosses the box back into the crate. “Bareback then.” He grins that lecherous grin and Hackett’s heart hammers in his chest.  
  
He’s missed Zaeed. More than he would ever admit.  
  
~~~~~  
  
By some small miracle they manage to not break the cot. They also manage to sully a crate. And the floor after Zaeed spreads out a blanket on it. It’s still hard, but not as cold. And later it allows them to lay side by side on their backs, sharing the only pillow. Zaeed’s leg is propped up, his foot resting between Hackett’s knees, their sides pressed together, staring up at the ceiling. Zaeed’s fingers trace the scar on Hackett’s stomach, his arm heavily dropped across him while the fingers circle and circle the rough edges.  
  
They talk about Shepard’s mission, the Collectors, the Collector ship— _“Fucking told her it was a trap”_ —the crew she’s gathered around her. Shepard had forwarded all of her reports to him in secret, so he’s familiar enough with what’s been happening. But hearing it from Zaeed puts a whole new spin on things. He trusts Zaeed’s judgement as much as he does Shepard’s, not only because he’s known Zaeed nearly twenty years, but because the man has always told it like it is. And if he says it’s serious, then it’s serious.  
  
“Goddamn Reapers, Steven. This is way over my head. Way over everyone’s goddamn head. Puts all those petty little problems in everyone's lives collectively to shame.”  
  
He grunts, his brain already swinging back into Admiral Hackett mode, making mental lists of who he needs to contact. The list is long.  
  
His train of thought is interrupted by Zaeed, who reaches up to the cot and pulls down another blanket, spreading it over them. “I really shouldn’t stay—”  
  
“You really should. When was the last time we actually did anything other than just fuck each other? Much less sleep? EDI, lights.”  
  
The overhead lights dim, sinking the room into murky shadows with the only light coming in from the observation window. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Massani?” The ship AI’s voice is unnervingly seductive.  
  
“Wake us in two hours.”  
  
“Of course. Logging you out.”  
  
“You’re quite bossy,” Hackett says.  
  
“Which is why you keep coming back for more.”  
  
Hackett captures his hand to stop the constant movement on his scar. “I come back for more than that,” he says, low and rough. “I always have. And you know it.” He hadn’t meant to say anything, but once the words are out he doesn’t regret them. He can’t regret them. If what’s coming at them from the darkness of deep space is real—and he’s as sure as he’ll ever be that it is—then the time for regrets is long past.  
  
Zaeed doesn’t answer. The words sit between them like a Silversun Strip sign, flashing brightly unsaid emotion. Unavoidable. Incomplete.  
  
But true nonetheless.  
  
~~~~~  
  
He dresses slowly, his body aching in both pleasant and unpleasant ways. His days of being able to sleep on the floor are long past, but he manages to resist a groan when he leans over to pick up his boxers and undershirt. The bruise on his neck burns in a way that makes his cock twitch. He knows it will distract him the next few days. But he doesn't resent that thought even though he should. He is, after all, more than just an Admiral.  
  
Zaeed watches him with an unrelenting, piercing gaze that would unnerve him had he been made of weaker stuff. He'd pulled on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, then sat down on the cot and just watched wordlessly.  
  
The man is chewing on something. Hackett knows this much. But what that something is, he can only guess at. And he doesn't feel like playing that game. So he dresses, smoothing down his trousers, straightening his collar, until there's only his cap left. He picks it up and tucks it under his arm.  
  
Only then does he break the silence. “Message me when you get back from the Omega 4 relay.”  
  
Zaeed has to clear his throat before he says, “Who says we're coming back?” His voice is low, and choked with emotion that they both ignore.  
  
“You're with _her_. Plus you're like a cat. How many lives do you have left?”  
  
The man shrugs at that. “Might have a few.”  
  
“See? You're coming back.”  
  
Words remain unsaid. Too many to count. But now is not the time or the place. Maybe someday. Maybe never. Just not now. His throat is too full of them all so he says nothing as he sets his cap, turning on his heel, straightening his sore back. Cloaking himself in the protective mantle of his military training.  
  
“Steven. Goddamnit. Wait—”  
  
Zaeed has snuck up behind him, turns him with rough hands. He's pressed back against the door, Zaeed kissing him with hard desperation They have kissed many ways; soft and playful, heated and passionate, messy, wet smacking of lips. But they have never kissed like this, full of meaning that neither is able to put words to, that makes their hands shake. His heart aches and he clutches Zaeed to him, holding on for as long as he can.  
  
And just as suddenly as he was grabbed he is released, Zaeed stepping away and alternating between fixing him with that hard, defiant look and being unable to meet his gaze.  
  
“I'll let you know when we're back through,” he says.  
  
And that is all he needs to hear. He nods and resets his cap. “Good,” he says. “Very good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I would apologize for the horrid pun in the title, but I just can't rustle up the remorse to do so.
> 
>  
> 
> **Head canon about these two**
> 
> How they met: Captain Hackett was sent to investigate a slave ring. Zaeed was on a bounty for the ring leader (unpaid gambling debts to The Patriarch). Hackett and some of his men had been captured by the slavers. Zaeed rescued them.
> 
> About the scar: while rescuing them, he _might_ have shot Hackett. Accidentally. He feels bad about that. (This line never made it into the story. But I imagine it comes up once in awhile, so have it too—- About a scar on Hackett’s chest: Z “I told you I was sorry about that. How many times do I have to say I'm goddamn sorry?” H “Still gets me pity sex”)
> 
> About their tattoos: yes, they match; yes, they were drunk when they got them; yes, it's the coordinates to the planet where they met
> 
> About their heights: Hackett is 6’2” Zaeed is 5’11”


End file.
